Chapter 10: 10 : Chud

The porch boards creaked each time Bram shifted his weight, but he could not keep still. Late sun burned low over the wheat stubble, washing the fields amber, and still no sign of Father—or of Will with their promised game. Bram shaved thin curls from an apple with his clasp-knife, letting the peel fall in a single red spiral. He chewed without tasting.

They’re late, he thought, resentment prickling beneath worry. Father had taken that runt Will on the “important” hunt, leaving Bram to mind chores like a girl. It was humiliation enough; now dusk approached and the smokehouse stood empty.

A dust plume appeared on the road. One rider coming fast. Not Father’s loping gait—this horse ran lighter, a courier’s tempo. Bram closed the knife and stood, apple forgotten.

As the rider drew near, Bram’s stomach knotted. Blue-and-black sash across a thick chest, steel gorget glinting: Osric, the district collector. Two days early.

He forced his shoulders square, wiping dirt from his trousers with sweating palms. Osric reined in before the porch, brow pinched with irritable curiosity.

“Where’s your father, boy?”

Bram swallowed. “H-hunting, sir. He should’ve been back, but… maybe the boar ran long.”

Osric’s eyes flicked across the quiet yard—empty wagon, idle smokehouse, one lantern unlit by the barn.

“He knows the levy’s due.” Voice like a file on iron. “And I don’t relish chasing debt through moonlight.”

“He’ll have it ready,” Bram said, gaze fixed on his own boots.

Silence stretched while Osric studied him. When Bram risked a glance, the man’s mouth curved in a dry smile.

“Tell him I return at sundown.” Osric leaned forward. “If he makes me wait again, I charge double.”

Bram nodded hard. “Yes, sir.”

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“Look at me when you answer.”

He lifted his chin, finding flinty grey eyes inches away. “Yes, sir.”

Osric straightened, satisfied, but lingered—counting buildings, measuring acreage, Bram could almost feel the sums sliding behind that gaze. At last the collector wheeled his gelding.

“Mind yourself,” he called over a shoulder. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Bram let out the breath he’d caged, legs suddenly weak. He watched the collector disappear down the path, dust settling slow.

He was halfway back to the porch when a new sound pricked his ears—rapid hoofbeats, but from the opposite direction. Bram turned, heart leaping.

A dark horse galloped the lane, mane flying. No rider.

“Chud?” Bram stepped forward, disbelief snagging every limb. Father’s old war-gelding thrashed up the drive, foam flecking the bit. Empty saddle. Reins wild.

Bram’s breath iced. Chud never left Father’s side. Never.

He caught the bridle as the gelding skidded to a halt, shushing frantic breaths. Panic soured his mouth. He scanned the horizon—no second horse, no stumbling figure.

Hoof-rattle clattered again: Osric returning at a canter, eyes sharp with intent. He reined beside Bram, gaze fixed on the horse. “Isn’t that Garret’s beast?”

Bram nodded mute.

“Where’s the man who should be mounted on it?”

“I—I don’t know.” His voice cracked. “Chud would never leave Pa. Something’s wrong.”

A pause while Osric weighed fear, opportunity, or both. Then the dry smile returned.

“We’ll have a look,” he said. “Mount up.”

Bram hesitated only a heartbeat before swinging into Chud’s saddle. The big horse stamped but accepted him; he clutched the pommel, trying not to tremble.

Osric studied the farm once more, as if assessing collateral, then nudged his gelding forward. “Which way did your father ride?”

“East track, into the pine belt.”

“Show me.”

They set off—collector first, Bram close behind. As they passed the empty porch Osric called back, voice casual:

“Tell me, boy—how many acres does Garret work these days?”

The question rolled across Bram like a shadow, long and cold.